


Light the Fire That Guides Me Home

by honey_wheeler



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Canon, F/M, Marriage, Prostitution, in canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-20
Updated: 2018-05-20
Packaged: 2019-05-09 08:01:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14712239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honey_wheeler/pseuds/honey_wheeler
Summary: As he looks down at Ros – his wife – and remembers just how it felt to spill inside her for the first time, forhisfirst time, Jon is shamed at how little he cares that it was reckless, and how very much he wishes he’d been so impulsive long ago.





	Light the Fire That Guides Me Home

**Author's Note:**

> For the kinkmeme prompt: [Show] Jon/Ros - marriage; After finding himself unable to sleep with her for fear of siring a bastard, Jon gets drunk and finds himself marrying her instead. Hey, he's the Bastard of Winterfell, what does it matter if he takes a whore to wife?

It’s the most reckless, impulsive thing he’s ever done, and Jon can’t pretend there aren’t several of those to choose from. “Boy’s got a chip on his shoulder as big as his potential,” he’d overheard Jory telling Ser Rodrick once, and it had stung all the more for the truth in it. It had shamed him, the resentment he’d always felt, though his father treated him as a true son, far better than a bastard had any right to expect. His love for Robb couldn’t stop him from swinging at him in training as if he were an enemy at the gates, something that tormented him each time their swords were dropped and Robb laughed and embraced him as a brother, serenely unbothered by the desperate need to prove himself that sometimes seemed as if it would eat Jon alive. 

As he looks down at Ros – his wife – and remembers just how it felt to spill inside her for the first time, for _his_ first time, Jon is shamed at how little he cares that it was reckless, and how very much he wishes he’d been so impulsive long ago.

She stretches with a feline purr, her skin as pale as his surname but intoxicatingly – surprisingly – pink in all the places Jon wants to linger. All the places that he’s beginning to realize he _can_ linger, this morrow and all the morrows to come.

“Mmm,” she hums, the picture of sleek, smug hedonism. “Hello.” Her fingertip tracing along his earlobe goes straight to his cock. Gods help him, he had her so many times during the night and still he wants her so badly it’s as if it’s still the first time. 

It’s a bit hazy now, what all happened; he’d been good and drunk last night, though not enough that he could let himself lie with her when Robb and Theon laughingly forced him into her room and congratulated themselves as they went to find their own whores for the night. He’d wanted to, Gods, how he’d wanted to when she smiled at him and asked his name and slid his hand into her gown to palm her breast. He’d nearly come just from the feel of her in his hand, warm and perfect, softer and sweeter than a perfectly ripened peach. He remembers turning away, apologies spilling from his lips, remembers kneeling at her feet with his head in her lap as she clucked over him and soothed him like the mother he never had. He remembers a kiss, and then another, and another, until he knew the taste of her mouth like his own and she had his head at her breast in a way that had nothing to do with maternal soothing. He does not remember saying the words asking to take her to wife, but he remembers the strange, vulnerable look after, the quiet, nearly shy way she said she would.

They’d roused a septon nearby who’d blinked and yawned through their vows, taking Jon’s coin without a word and closing his door in their faces the moment it was through. Jon had a thought that he’d take Ros to the godswood soon to wed her properly, that the blessings of the old gods might let him be the man he’d imagined with a life that had seemed unattainable. Then Jon hadn’t thought at all. He’d only hauled Ros up before him on his mount and swallowed her surprised laughter with a kiss as he pushed the horse as fast as he dared to get back to Ros’s bed and all the heavens it contained.

She pulls his head down for a kiss now, one a hundred times more assured and assertive than any Jon had known before her. She coaxes his tongue into her mouth and sucks, the sensation of it reminding Jon vividly of how she’d dropped to her knees the moment they closed her door the night before and freed his cock from his breeches, sucking at it with a clever and oh so avid tongue, like it was her favorite dessert.

“Do you always look so broody when you wake?” Ros asks with a laugh when she breaks the kiss, pushing herself up onto her elbows to look at him. Jon is fascinated by her breasts, now looking so gently rounded, their pink tips flat and soft; last night when he first tasted them, they were like teardrops, her nipples pebbling under the touch of his tongue. Later, when she pushed him down onto his back and straddled him as if riding a horse, they’d been heavy and free, the tips pointed towards his mouth like they wanted to be tasted as much as he wanted to taste. He’d never known women could be such mutable creatures, as shifting as the stars in the night sky. Then he remembers that this is his wife, all her changes his to discover, and he closes his eyes and swallows hard against the lump of emotion in his throat.

“Jon?” Her voice is laced with the same concern he sees on her face when he opens his eyes. She looks younger again, shy, like she’s a girl he met at a Winterfell banquet rather than a woman who takes coin for the use of her body. 

“If you want to put me aside, you can,” she says, the teasing tone of the words contradicted by the vulnerability in her eyes. “I’m a whore, after all. I have no honor to ruin.” She means her smile to be cheeky, playful, but Jon can see the way her mouth twists at the corner, a world of hurt spoken by the wobbly seam of her lips.

“I don’t want to,” he tells her. Her smile at that is real, relieved, and she meets his kiss with a longing to match his own. Jon had never thought to have a wife who loved him. And perhaps it’s too soon to be love, perhaps it’s only desire and loneliness and a kind of wild hope they both share, despite their lives being so different.

Perhaps, Jon thinks as he rolls atop his wife, her thighs parting and twining about his hips in an invitation to what’s suddenly, gloriously his to have, perhaps it doesn’t matter what it is. Perhaps all that matters to both of them is that it is at all.


End file.
